


three trees bound

by alexodian, Maelstrom_Prince, rathalos



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Dai-nana-han | Team 7 (Naruto), BAMF Uzumaki Naruto, Dai-nana-han | Team 7 (Naruto)-centric, Fix-it fic . . . except it goes a little sideways, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Multi, Namikaze Minato Lives, No Uchiha Massacre, Strong Haruno Sakura, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Uzumaki Kushina Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexodian/pseuds/alexodian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maelstrom_Prince/pseuds/Maelstrom_Prince, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: Sakura will write herself into the history books on her own merit—the power she has belongs to no one but herself. They won’t know anything about her until she’s strong, and the only legacy she leaves will be the echoes of her power. She won’t settle down and have children, she won’t be content to fade into the background, she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.Naruto is five when he’s taught to stand on water, six when he learns his first Uzumaki seal, seven when his name is added to the summoning scroll. He barrels far past his peers as he progresses. By the time he turns eight, he has the chakra and stamina to keep up with some adults.It is then, when his time at the Academy begins, that he trips and it all shatters like glass.There’s no point trying to compete with Itachi—a hushed part of Sasuke's soul has been hissing truths at him for years—following in the footsteps of Shinobi will end with his ruin. It shakes his resolve like fingers pulling the string of a bow taut, quivering his limbs with anticipation for the moment he snaps.





	three trees bound

**Author's Note:**

> _three trees bound_ — from the saying, “một cây làm chẳng nên non / ba cây chụm lại nên hòn núi cao,” which means, roughly, “one tree makes a small hill / three trees bound together form a mountain.”
> 
> this first chapter is more an introduction than anything else. next chapter the story will really start! please enjoy =)

Sakura is born with both hands holding tight to the short end of the stick. It’s the only way she can keep her head above the water—clutching doggedly to her determination—she can’t rest, or she’ll lose what little footing she has.

When she is five years old she sees a shinobi running across the rooftops of her village—footsteps as a cat’s tread, nothing to denote their presence save for the few moments she saw them.

She wants to attend the academy. Sakura wants to be like that.

Her parents send her there because it’s next to impossible to argue with an incensed Sakura, and they figure it’s a temporary infatuation. They think the defiance will bleed out of her, melting down until there’s only Sakura, the civilian, left behind: pure and pristine, saved from the horrors of violence.

They think she’ll drop out in a few years when her interest has died down. If anything, going to the academy only lights kindling inside her, flame to inferno.

Her mother and father have always been civilians, all the way back to the beginning of time. They’ve never been shinobi, only hired them. They tell her: civilians can lead fulfilling lives. Civilians can be happy. Sakura doesn’t want that.

She thinks of her life in two parts: before the academy, after the academy.

Before the academy her life had been stagnant. She was so little, so unknowing, yet all the same so discontent. When she walked, she waded. Slowly, without purpose, summer heat threatening to suffocate her. What she remembers is hazy, her mother’s laughter, her father’s deep, slow voice, phosphenes swimming across her vision when she rubbed her eyes too hard, breathing in and gasping for air—those had been Konoha’s humid summers.

After the academy there is satisfaction. She’s going to become a shinobi, she’s going to be strong, she’s going to prove her parents wrong, Sakura, Sakura, Sakura. And it wells up inside her, thick and heady until she is sick with it—until it threatens to crawl up her throat and lodge itself there.

She spends most of her days after her enrollment in the library, devouring books and scrolls on Konoha’s history, on what scant knowledge there is available on the noble clans. Sakura breathes it in with near-religious fervor, and by the end of every day, her arms are shaky with the weight of the books she carries.

When the satisfaction fades away—drips down her arms, pools in her chest, down, down, down—when it’s burned to nothing under the weight of taunts and teases, Forehead Girl, civilian-born, _as if that makes her any weaker_—anger rises from its ashes.

Anger is a white-hot blaze, the same determination that clung to her heels when she stepped foot past the classroom door but hotter, more intense, more likely to end in broken pencils and waspy scribbles carved into her studying journals.

Who can tell her what to do? Who can tell her she is inferior because her mother and father never touched chakra, never trained from sunup to sundown, never held a blade wrong and been cut by it?

No one can. If Sakura ever gives up this dream it’ll be because she got tired of it. No one will deter her. No one will force her to bow.

She makes this vow in the dead of night, age nine, books scattered around her bedside. 

_No one._

She doubles the time spent at the library—now more than ever, she lives her life between the pages of aged texts, dusty tomes, breathing in the smell of old paper—that is the knowledge of those who came before her.

But they’re not like her. Who is like her?

Uzumaki Mito, Senju Tsunade, Uzumaki Kushina—those are the only women who are mentioned consistently, as fonts of power, strength, dependability. Three out of three are from prestigious clans. They should, all of them, serve to strengthen the words she’s heard so many times—you’re not from a shinobi family, you’ll never go anywhere, maybe someone will take pity and marry you when you’re older—the last sends shivers of disgust up her spine—the room shakes around her—they don’t.

Instead, the same indignation fills her up, boils from her toes to the roots of her hair.

She grows out of the shell of her childhood, fingers trailing along the spines of treasured books, away from the heavy judgement of her parents—we want the best for you, Sakura-chan, wouldn’t you feel better with a safe life?—in equal measure, defiance and anger are the building blocks of her being.

Uzumaki and Senju and Uzumaki, three powerful women she should look up to but can’t because she is not them, will never be them, doesn’t have inherited power surging through her veins.

That leaves her in the dark, Haruno Sakura, civilian-born nobody.

She’ll write herself into the history books on her own merit—the power she has belongs to no one but herself. They won’t know anything about her until she’s strong, and the only legacy she leaves will be the echoes of her power. She won’t settle down and have children, she won’t be content to fade into the background, she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

It is spring. New life is bright green, clear water, shining sun; something grows inside Sakura, too.

“Ino, I’m gonna prove them all wrong,” Sakura promises, fingers tangled into the grass beneath their favorite tree. Ripping it up. Tearing it out from the roots. “Even if Ami says we’re all gonna fail.”

“Who cares what Ami says? She’s only in the Academy because they cover tuition if you take the genin exam,” Ino says. “You’ll be fine, Sakura. You can fall back on my clan if you ever need to. My dad likes you. I like you. We’re happy to help if you need it.”

That’s what she hates—Ino doesn’t understand even though she means well, and Sakura knows—and the knowledge of it sits heavy in her stomach, a dense pool of lead—she _knows_ so many other kids like her would love that sense of security, would love to be backed by one of Konoha’s noble clans.

Sakura is just Sakura. The Haruno name carries no weight. There’s no way she could refuse without sounding overconfident, without sounding ungrateful for the support of the Yamanaka clan.

It itches anyway. Grates at her nerves. Subconsciously, Ino thinks she will fail, so she stands there with a line in her hand, barbed hook sitting pretty at its end, waiting for Sakura to lose her grip on the stick and catch the line instead.

She would rather fall.

“I know,” she says. “That’s really nice of you.”

Her mother and father would like that. If she told them she was friends with Ino they would be happy, would say how proud they are of their little Sakura, making friends with important people.

Sakura likes Ino—loves her, even—but there’s so much she doesn’t understand.

She is eleven years old, spends her days hunched over a library desk studying theory and practicing it until her entire body aches.

Hyuuga, Uchiha, Inuzuka, Yamanaka, Uzumaki, Akimichi, Nara, Aburame—too many people she must prove herself to. Surpass, even. But she’ll stand by the rest of her classmates as an equal, or she’ll not stand at all.

*

When Naruto is born, he is placed into the arms of the strongest shinobi in Konoha.

He does not remember it, of course, but he has heard the story of how Uzumaki Kushina forced the great Kyuubi back within herself by the power of her Adamantine Sealing Chains. He has heard of how Namikaze Minato shocked the village by stepping down from the role of Hokage to Advisor and Archivist, just so his wife could take his place. He has heard, countless times, of how his parents saved their village from death and destruction, not only during the Kyuubi Event but during so many others.

He knows he will follow in their footsteps. He will become the strongest Hokage all of history has ever seen.

As long as he can remember, he has been striving towards that goal. He owes it to his family—his village—to achieve it.

Most things come easy. He is only four when he learns, accidentally, what his nature is—_wind,_ the one shared by both parents, the one that stokes the flames of the Will of Fire. It stokes his own fires, too, as he charges head first into training.

He’s five when he’s taught to stand on water, six when he learns his first Uzumaki seal, seven when his name is added to the summoning scroll. He barrels far past his peers as he progresses. By the time he turns eight, he has the chakra and stamina to keep up with some adults.

It is then, when his time at the Academy begins, that he trips it all shatters like glass.

Naruto likes to say that he likes to read.

And, well, he _does._ When the village and the world get to be too much, he goes out into the surrounding forest and he sits with a book until sundown. It’s soothing, especially near the rivers, to listen to the quiet and watch the fish swim against the current until they can’t anymore. He likes the fish, and he likes his books.

But his books are simple, books about false legends and fake warriors and fairy tales, books about everything he should have grown out of by now. They are nothing like the Academy texts.

(Some of his books are different. Some of them are about Uzushio. After he reads those, he looks into the water and imagines a different reflection, imagines seeing red hair and cheeks without whiskers. Imagines the brothers and sisters he could have.)

He keeps good company. He gets good grades. He is a good person. These are the things he tells himself to stay sane when Iruka pulls him aside for the third time this month and tells him, “If you’re struggling, you can always ask me for help.” The concern in that voice makes something heavy swim in Naruto’s stomach, but he knows he has to accept it.

There are good days. Days where he can make it through class with ease. But the bad days are more frequent, ones where as much as Iruka talks he can’t manage to listen. Ones where his mind won’t shut up, and the letters start swapping places, and he has to read the same sentence over and over until he gives up—those are the days he wants to go to the forest and watch the fish and the frogs and be alone.

(He’s never alone, though. Anbu is always watching, their chakra prickling at the edge of his awareness. He hates their constant presence nearly as much as he hates feeling lonely.)

When he’s picking at his dinner and his dad asks him _are you reading those texts I got you_ or _has school been going well_ or _do you want to help me with my notes_, Naruto says, “Yes,” and he lets himself become the child of the Yondaime and the Yellow Flash.

(The texts he gets are all too dense and too complicated, but he tries his best and he reads them anyway. School goes well, but never well enough, not when his parents are among the best students to ever emerge from the Academy. Reading the notes on fuuinjutsu frustrates him more and more and leaves him with a headache and burning eyes when he gets to bed, but he _needs_ to learn. That’s his family, and his legacy, and his_ right—_no, _duty._)

Sometimes they have the Sandaime over, when his mom and dad need to talk about the village and the world, and he brings his grandson with. Konohamaru is young and bold, and sometimes he says that hopes he grows up to be like Naruto, and it takes everything in him not to say back _no, you’re wrong, I’m not what you think I am._ But he bites through his tongue and keeps the masquerade for Konohamaru’s sake. He says, “Thank you,” back instead, and he hopes the blood doesn’t show in his smile.

When he doesn’t have time for the forest and both his parents don’t have time for dinner, he eats at Ichiraku’s. Teuchi always says, “The usual?” when he walks in, and it fills him with warm contentment. All he has to do is nod. Teuchi knows every customer in the same way, and that makes it feel even nicer. He finds himself there often.

After, he goes to the library. He tries to read. He tries to read often. Both are similar struggles, but he battles with both until he’s so frustrated he leaves.

He never leaves without a book, even if he knows he won’t finish it.

“Where you at the library today?” his mom asks, when they eat dinner. His dad is running late.

Naruto decides to smile when he says, “Yes.” He shows her his book, _The Secrets to Spirits and Summonings,_ and she smiles back.

“Oh, I remember reading that when I was your age! Do you like it?”

“Of course I do,” he says back. Later he will sit, frustrated, in the candlelight of his room. He will decide he likes it, too, even if it makes his head spin. He’s a good student, though. He’ll get it.

He sits in the front of class because it is easier to ask Iruka questions without having to raise his voice. He can whisper, “What does this mean?” and point to his book and Iruka will clarify quietly, not like how he explains other’s questions back to the whole class. Iruka is nice and helpful and he says he understands, and Naruto finds himself in the same seat after class, talking about each lesson. He stays long after the other students leave.

He gets good grades. He is a good person. And he keeps good company, even if it’s mostly his own.

*

Sasuke Uchiha is a silent child. 

He was brought into the world with a shadow cast over his existence. The inescapable pillar was held over his head, hiding him from the light and melding into part of him. 

It shielded him from rain, hail, and shine. 

Incases his cold body in an embrace filled with love and warmth, threatened to thaw the freezing scales Sasuke places under his own skin. 

He discovers his words have no weight. So he stops using them, and the dinner table goes quiet. For a brief moment in Sasuke’s youth, he tries to out-manoeuvre his seemingly permanent position buried under his brother. He studies until his brain strains against his skull, pulsing with migraines that accompany him for days. He trains until the bones of his knuckles burn and sting with greeting to frigid air—stripped of protective flesh by splintered pinewood. 

He convinces himself that his Father’s praise will be a breath of fresh air to finally quell the straining ache in his chest. 

But as it turns out, the ache was just his own flames crawling up his spine from his toes, taking residence in the spaces between his ribcage and refusing to let go. No matter how loud he screams, how hard he tugs, he cannot yank them from the confines of his body. 

The day is overcast and the atmosphere mellow, when Sasuke finally coaxes the curling fire from within the hollow of his bones, pours the passion from his lips with more ease than words will ever be allowed. 

He could’ve cried with relief.

But his Father looks nowhere near as impressed, and no matter how much they’re said to look alike, no emotion of Sasuke’s has ever been reflected in the darkened irises that peered down at him. He receives a curt nod in acknowledgement, nothing but a reflexive jerk of corded muscle before his Father turns heel back to the compound. 

Sasuke is left feeling cold—wishing that he’d never let loose the fire that dared to burn within his soul. He surrenders himself within his prison of ice, feeling himself crystallise as his mind becomes as numb as the ends of spindly fingers. 

His first revelation occurs soon after that day. He’s sitting in class, plagued with exhaustion, when his head lazily lolls from the pedestal lodged between his shoulders. It hits the window with a quiet _thunk_, and his tired mind can only think about how soothing the crisp glass feels against his headache. Some hour later, he wakes with a startle, heart hammering away inside him so loud and frantic he was to think it were trying to rouse him from sleep alone. He’d never fallen asleep in class before. 

That night, he does not bring silence to the dinner table. “I fell asleep in class today,” he declares boldly, barely pausing to swallow before reaching back into his bowl for another mouthful. He doesn’t have the confidence to observe their reactions, so he keeps his eyes nailed to the ceramic bowl under his chin. He hears his Mother quietly intake a single breath, the shuffle of Itachi’s clothes ceasing, signalling his halt. His Father’s bowl is placed on the hardwood table, sound too heavy for him to be finished the contents. 

“And pray tell, why you decided this should be tolerated?” His Father’s sinking words are deep, filled with disappointment and stewing with fury. Fugaku’s tone is sharpened like a weapon, puncturing the airtight casing of Sasuke’s skin, and he feels his shoulders ooze forward, slumping from the previously strict posture. 

“I was tired.” He excuses truthfully, smooth words stubborn as to not reveal the tremble of his legs under the table, muscles flooding with terrified adrenaline, readying him to escape. It’s undoubtedly the first time in years he’s been the sole bearer of his parent’s attention with Itachi in the room.

“You will retire early tonight, and see to this does not happen again.” His Father’s words are final, syllables carrying the Will of Fire in its rawest form as they consume the oxygen in the room, leaving none left for rebuttal. As the thicket of silence windes tighter around Sasuke’s throat, a false calm washes over the ground, indicating them to resume eating. No one gets up to leave. No one says anything more. Sasuke sits and holds his breath, like a good Uchiha. 

When he recedes to his room much later—stalling the action to flaunt his proficiency of denial, sweat-slicked over his skin like dew—He leaves his light on, knowing the entire compound could see the defiant yellow glow well into the night. 

There’s no point trying to compete with Itachi—a hushed part of his soul has been hissing truths at him for years—following in the footsteps of Shinobi will end with his ruin. It shakes his resolve like fingers pulling the string of a bow taut, quivering his limbs with anticipation for the moment he_ snaps. _

He doesn’t let it happen. Instead, he rolls his shoulders like a feline under the sun, flexes his fingers until the trembling stops and the tension eases from his mortal form. He let’s go. As if the heat from the sky could fuel him alone, he inhales the warmth from the world around him, and gives way to a child-like giddiness blooming freely inside him. 

His life gets easier after that point. Throwing expectations to the dust, he finds himself trailblazing a path that no one would have foreseen for the seemingly perfect youngest Uchiha. He falls asleep in class—even when he’s not tired, grades plummeting. Iruka pulls him aside in weapon practice, bends to his level and grips his shoulders in what is no doubt intended to be a gesture of comfort. 

“Sasuke, you’ve been like this for days, this isn’t healthy. We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong. You’ve been falling asleep in class, your parents are— concerned.” 

The crook of Sasuke’s lips gives into a sly slant as he bemusedly imagines his Father storming through the Academy, raining his wrath down on the confused mice as they scramble fruitlessly to figure out the dramatic switch in his son’s behaviour. 

He shrugs, mumbling the words, “everything is fine.” 

Because in honesty, things have never been finer. As if to prove his point, he flicks his pale wrist with practised precision, Iruka’s head craning to follow the gleaming silver star as it slices the air. 

It lands in the wooden leg of the target stand, barely scraping the rounded edge. 

Iruka slumps, mouth dropping open ever so slightly at the appalling throw. Sasuke’s smirk morphs into a devilish display of satisfaction as he soaks in the stunned silence of the class. 

Sasuke’s going to change everything, and whether that be for the better or worse—Frankly, he doesn’t care. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's easy to just read it and click out of the tab, or leave a kudos and click out, but please consider leaving a comment! it's an easy way to make an author's entire day. and also, there are not one, but THREE of us desperately seeking your validation here. we read every single comment. even if we don't reply, we see and appreciate everything.  
thank you for reading!
> 
> (psst. alexodian runs a [spicy discord server](https://discord.gg/kr55ER) for those who are interested in joining :3 we don't bite! (ok, prince might) feel free to hang out and chat, or just lurk)


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